Somewhere Between “This Looks Fun” and “Why Is This So Expensive?

I spend eight hours a day managing a high-rise condominium in Lakewood, Ohio which means a large portion of my professional life is built around responsibility, schedules, contractors, residents, repairs, decisions, and the occasional problem that apparently developed overnight with the sole purpose of introducing itself to me before coffee. I have been doing it for four years, and I like my job, so this is not the beginning of some dramatic story about leaving everything behind to chase a dream. I still plan on showing up tomorrow. What started bothering me was simpler than that. I realized how easy it is to spend most of your waking day doing things you are obligated to do and never leave much room for something that belongs entirely to you. I kept explaining it to my wife as having a creative cup that was not being filled. I realize that sounds dangerously close to something printed above a kitchen sink in cursive, but unfortunately it was accurate.

For about a year before I ever owned a serious camera, I watched photography videos constantly. YouTube, TikTok, street photographers, editing breakdowns, camera reviews, reviews of lenses I did not own, comparisons between cameras I had no intention of buying, and eventually comparisons between things I barely understood. This is apparently the modern apprenticeship. You watch enough strangers on the internet and eventually convince yourself you are one purchase away from competence. Street photography was what really pulled me in. I liked the idea that someone could walk past an ordinary scene, notice something most people ignored, and turn it into something worth looking at. But what really got me was the editing. The color, the contrast, the grain, the darker tones, the mood. I loved seeing how an image could be shaped into something that felt almost cinematic, like a frame from a movie instead of a record of what happened to be standing in front of the camera.

Eventually I reached the uncomfortable conclusion that watching photography and doing photography were technically different activities, so about two and a half years ago I bought a Fujifilm X-T5. I chose Fuji because it felt more like a creative tool to me. This makes very little sense when I try to explain it, but I have always thought of Fujifilm as the Apple of cameras. I am aware that statement will irritate at least three different groups of people, which probably means it belongs here. Buying the camera felt intimidating and irresponsible in roughly equal amounts. There is something especially humbling about spending serious money on a machine and then immediately going home to search “how to use Fujifilm X-T5.” Nothing projects confidence quite like owning 40 megapixels and not knowing what half the buttons do.

At first I photographed whatever was nearby. Things around the house, my dogs, buildings, random details, anything willing to remain stationary long enough for me to experiment on it. My dogs were particularly cooperative in the sense that they lived there and lacked legal representation. Over time I started noticing that photography was changing the way I looked at ordinary things. Frames inside frames. Lines. Composition. Light coming through a window. Shadows running across a building. The way something can look completely unremarkable until the light hits it correctly for thirty seconds. Once you start seeing that stuff, it becomes difficult to turn it off. You start mentally cropping the world while walking through it, which is either creative growth or a very specific neurological condition.

The bigger shift came when I decided, with the financial restraint photography is famous for, to buy enough equipment to put together a makeshift studio. Flash changed things for me almost immediately. I liked the look, but I also liked the technical challenge. Natural light has a certain attitude of “this is what you get.” Flash lets you argue back. Suddenly I could decide where the light came from, how hard it was, where the shadows fell, and how much shape I wanted in the image. I could also make an image dramatically worse with much greater precision, which I believe is technically called progress. But once I started getting it right, even occasionally, something shifted. The photographs began looking more professional. Not all of them. I would like to maintain at least a little credibility here. But enough of them that I could see there might be something worth pursuing.

Editing took its own route. Early on I had to learn a lesson that sounds obvious until Lightroom hands you several hundred ways to ignore it: just because you can do something does not mean you should. Learning the technical side was one thing. Learning restraint was harder. After watching more tutorials than I would willingly admit under oath, I got comfortable with how to edit. The more difficult part was figuring out when to edit, how far to push something, and when to stop before the image starts looking like it lost an argument with software. I still pick apart my own work constantly, especially color and shadows. Someone can tell me they love an image and my brain will accept the compliment while immediately opening a separate investigation into three things I should have done differently. Very efficient system.

My personal taste leans cinematic. Dramatic light, deeper contrast, moodier color, grain when it belongs. But I do not want every photograph I make to look like it is waiting for opening credits. For professional work, I believe clean and timeless matters. The goal is versatility. I want to be able to make the image the subject calls for instead of developing one trick and applying it to every person, dog, building, and reasonably photogenic shrub I encounter. Personal work gives me room to push things further. Client work gives me a responsibility to know when not to.

A little while ago, I did my first real portrait session. It was someone I knew, along with her dog and cat, and I did it for free. That shoot taught me two things very quickly. First, I could produce high-quality images. Second, posing people correctly is considerably more important than I had hoped. I am a quiet person. I will joke around once I get comfortable, but confidently telling another adult what to do with their hands is not something I was naturally preparing for in life. It got easier because I knew her. Doing it with a stranger will be different, and I know that is something I need to get better at. Photography has an irritating habit of finding the part of your personality you would prefer to leave alone and making it part of the job description.

The important part was that she was genuinely happy with the photographs. That mattered. I am my own worst critic, so my personal approval carries roughly the same authority as an internal memo nobody requested. Seeing someone else excited about the work gave me a different kind of confidence. It did not suddenly make me feel like I had arrived. I still hesitate to call myself a photographer because I know how much I have left to learn. But it gave me enough proof to keep going.

About two months ago I made Chris Eicher Photography official. I have no idea where it goes from here. I am not pretending there is some master plan hidden in a drawer somewhere. If I get a client or two a month, I would consider that a success. Portraits and dogs are where I want to spend most of my time right now. Pets matter to people in a way that goes far beyond having something cute in the house. They provide security, joy, companionship, and occasionally more emotional stability than anyone else involved. They deserve photographs that feel important too.

My wife deserves a lot of credit for me getting this far. I talked about the idea for a long time. Eventually the conversation became, essentially, “let’s do it and see where it goes.” Which, in retrospect, was far more useful than another six months of research. I never wanted to look back and wonder what would have happened if I had tried. Maybe it becomes something bigger. Maybe it stays small. I am not building my identity around either outcome. The point was to put something of my own into the world and see what happened.

I am 40 now, and yes, part of me wishes I had picked up a camera earlier. But I also know I have more patience now than I would have had at 25. I understand that learning takes time. I trust the process more. I am less interested in pretending I know everything and more comfortable admitting that I am still figuring it out. My personal work is not really about getting a reaction from anyone. I want to look at one of my street, architecture, or landscape images and feel like I am getting closer to the level of photographers I respect. Maybe not standing shoulder to shoulder with them yet. Perhaps somewhere across the parking lot. But close enough to keep walking.

That is also the reason this blog exists. I wanted another way to put myself out there without turning the whole thing into a carefully polished version of a person who clearly has everything figured out. I will talk about photography, what I am learning, what I am trying, what I get wrong, what I occasionally get right, and probably myself more than I originally intended. I doubt this will be weekly. I started photography partly because I wanted something that was mine, so turning it into another mandatory Tuesday obligation would be impressively stupid.

The portfolio shows you the finished work. This is the part where you get to know the person still trying to figure out how good he can become.